


Never a Curate!

by ERNest



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol, Friendship, Gen, Humanitarianism, Mild Drunkenness, Religion, catholicism as written by a lutheran, more like tipsy but if you need a warning there you go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 03:27:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21130004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ERNest/pseuds/ERNest
Summary: It’s either the church or the bar for him, and he refuses to debase himself by stooping to the practice of the law.Before he wasn't a lawyer, Bahorel wasn't a priest.





	Never a Curate!

Bahorel is not the oldest son so his is not the inheritance of the family estate, not that he would want to be a loafer without having earned it. Neither is he the second son so his is not the glory of the battlefield, not that he finds Napoleon’s bloodsoaked advanced very glorious. As he is not one of his sisters his is not a dowry of pearls and gold, which is a shame because he’d cut a fine figure in a wedding dress. It’s either the church or the bar for him, and he refuses to debase himself by stooping to the practice of the law.

Curate Bahorel (actually, he’s still a seminarian because for one reason or another he keeps missing his own ordination) hears of a synod to which ninety-four priests, each illustrious in his own way, have been invited to vote on the key issues of the day. Without consulting anyone but his consciences, and _certainly_ without asking the head of the diocese which is supposed to be responsible for him, he invites himself to the gathering of great minds. Now ninety-five strong, each man of the church will become a thesis nailed to its metaphorical doors and shake the whole structure down to its foundation. And if they don’t, at least the food will be good for the next fortnight or so.

Buonaparte is emperor, but does that make him legitimate? Not according to the pope, though if enough of the clergy of France band together they might overrule His Holiness, if only in practical terms. No doubt that was Napoleon’s hope in gathering them together like this, but who knows what he will get? From what Bahorel has observed, his fellow shepherds are disinclined to render up to Caesar what is Caesar’s, mostly because they want to keep that opulence for themselves.

*

On the third day a breath of fresh air blows in from the mountains, and Bahorel is grateful for the draft he represents. He has heard of Monseigneur Bienvenu, of course; who hasn’t? But in lauding the high attendance rates at every chapel, church, and cathedral under his purview, all the stories have neglected to mention either the sheer vibrancy that Bishop Myriel brings to every room he enters, or his schoolboy laugh.

The hearty chuckles that are shared when speaking of this dear bishop’s understated quips are themselves understated, for these anecdotes downplay the urgency of his belief in community interdependency, in favor of making it about harmless wordplay. But Bahorel knows, if no one else does, about the transformative — nay, the _revolutionary_ power of a pun.

One night they are both visiting the home of a priest who happens to live in the area. When the bishop builds up a good head of steam about how he’d hate to share a home with a cloth of gold that would forever be shouting in his ear that the poor are draped only in rags, it earns him first a smirk, then a guffaw loud enough to get both of them kicked out.

“_Well_,” says Bahorel as they stare up at the doors of the episcopal palce. “Any group that _would_ have me probably isn’t one I’d want to be a part of.”

“You may have a point there,” affirms His Grace. “Now what should we do since we seem to have become a group of two? The night is young yet, and the stars are very beautiful.”

“They certainly are.” Bahorel is struck without warning by the immensity of the sky above him, and my contrast how small he and even the planet itself really are. But small need not mean meaningless, he reminds himself, and it is possible to lose himself in the splendor of the Infinite without losing _himself_ entirely.

“We could always… I mean, we could always steal the rectory’s store of communion wine. That won’t take anything from the poor, and if my theology is up to date, it’s a holy substance meaning that we will be absolved of the sin the moment we’ve committed it.”

*

“You remind me of my own wild youth,” the bishop tells him later. His voice is mild and companionable as ever, but with greater inclination to laugh at nothing, and he has gone rather red in the face.

Bahorel doffs an imaginary hat. “I can only consider it a compliment to be compared to you in any way, particularly if you think I stand a chance at even approaching your embodiment of the Gospel.”

“Hmm.” Myriel cocks his head. “Like anything else, much of your path depends on your own choices and what shadows are cast upon it by society, but I consider it more than likely that you will.”

“Of course,” he backtracks, “that’s all assuming I live long enough for anyone to make the comparison.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well I may be a priest, or half of one, anyway, but I live more for action than for acts of service, and I lack your discipline to keep my mouth shut when prudence is called for. It’s bound to make me enemies and in fact I’d be disappointed if it didn’t. Fun, to be sure, but not great for one’s life expectancy.”

Myriel is quiet for some time, long enough to wonder what — or whom — he is remembering, and then he says, “I don’t know for sure, and even G-d’s work is dependent on our hands, but I have confidence that you’re going to be just fine.”

Bahorel grins. “I’ll drink to that!”

So they do.


End file.
